


amassing supplies

by Feather (lalaietha)



Series: (even if i could) make a deal with god [your blue-eyed boys related short-fic] [41]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky's Overdeveloped Caretaking Instinct, Disabled Character, Gen, Just Add Kittens, Mentally Ill Character, Steve being social, some days are good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-19
Updated: 2015-12-19
Packaged: 2018-05-07 14:09:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5459237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lalaietha/pseuds/Feather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Today wandering takes him to a Vietnamese cafe, and also to a new garden store and nursery that he's pretty sure wasn't there before. He grabs a hotdog for lunch and then, since he's out, Steve figures now is probably as good a time as any to pick up the stuff that a kitten that small's going to need.</p>
            </blockquote>





	amassing supplies

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of [**this series**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/132585), which is for short-fic associated with my fic [**your blue-eyed boys**](http://archiveofourown.org/series/107477), because I needed somewhere to stash it.

Among the things that have changed in the decades Steve spent as an ice-cube is, very definitely, owning a pet. 

He's out and about and has been since around eight this morning, because on balance he decided that the stress of feeling guilty because Steve was hanging around would end up being worse for Bucky than the stress of being alone when he's so clearly on edge. Sometimes it's like that: sometimes Bucky really can't convince himself that he's not somehow trapping Steve, keeping him from what kind of life, Steve can't even imagine. The funny thing being, Steve goes out and does stuff a hundred and fifty percent more now, even just on his own, without Bucky worrying about it, than he used to between waking up and Bucky coming home. 

But sometimes it's not actually worth arguing with Bucky's hindbrain, on this. Sometimes it's easier on both of them if Steve just goes out, because then he can come home and it's fine, and at least one thing stops gnawing at Bucky's mind. 

So Steve goes out, and today he goes out and just kind of wanders. The weather's not amazing, but it's not bad, either, and just roaming around is something Steve misses, sometimes. People don't seem to do it so much anymore. Or maybe they do, and just not where he's looking - it strikes him there must be places where the same reasons he and Bucky used to spend so much time outside still apply, namely that inside's . . . kind of cruddy. He doesn't have to deal with that anymore, inside home being pretty nice these days, but undoubtedly other people out there are still stuck with it, and still cope by living elsewhere, continually moving. 

Today wandering takes him to a Vietnamese cafe, and also to a new garden store and nursery that he's pretty sure wasn't there before. He grabs a hotdog for lunch and then, since he's out, Steve figures now is probably as good a time as any to pick up the stuff that a kitten that small's going to need. 

And as he looks up some addresses on his phone, he gets hit all over again by that sense of The World Has Changed. Because, it's like - 

People have always had pets. They've probably always needed to buy or make stuff for them. Steve gets that. It's just that finding out there are stores the size of Walmart _just for pets_ . . . it's kind of left him a little off-balance. He'd even known they were there. He'd actually seen a couple. But he'd never really thought about it, just let it go by, because it wasn't relevant. 

Now, suddenly, it's relevant, and he feels a bit overwhelmed. 

Steve's already increasingly in favour of the kitten, and he hasn't even known her for a full twenty-four hours. He'd been inclining that way just about from discovering she existed, since as he'd thought at the time, something that kept Bucky still and resting and _not unhappy about it_ is, in and of itself, worth a lot. And that did seem to be the effect through most of yesterday afternoon. 

Then Steve'd watched Bucky get up in the middle of the night, and then again this morning. And he hadn't been sleeping before he got up, and he'd slept really badly anyway - nothing to do with the kitten, everything to do with the inside of his head - so he was pretty obviously wound up. And then Steve watched him . . . wind down again, even if just slightly, over the course of giving the little thing a bottle and putting her in the litter-box and generally cleaning her up before he put her back in the box on the warming thing. And just that's had Steve thinking about stuff he's already read, about animal companionship and also about routines and goal-oriented actions, not to mention what he's known all his life and didn't need to read about in large bodies of research (but did anyway) about how feeling useless is bad for the psyche, and feeling useful and needed is good for it, in the right amounts. 

So even beyond the part where Mercedes being the cause of the kitten is good in and of itself, and a reason to keep it, Steve's more and more pleased with the idea.

He just doesn't know anything about having a cat. What did you do for a cat? With a cat? The ones people had when he and Bucky were kids mostly just seemed to sort of . . . be there. They hunted rats and mice and birds and anything else that moved and was small enough to eat, and then ate scraps off the table, and then slept near whatever human they liked best. Or yowled all night out in the alleys. 

The changes in pet care are probably a good thing, given Steve's quick read-up said that some pet cats these days live to their twenties and he is pretty sure that none of the neighbourhood furballs lived that long, but it also means that since he'd've been adrift at taking in a cat back when, here in the future, he's kind of at a loss. 

Bucky's response to Steve's text of _?cat supplies?_ seems pretty much as baffled: other than the name of the kitten formula and "some kind of cat litter that doesn't smell like poison" (which Steve agrees with completely), he just says, _fuck if I know otherwise doesn't Elizabeth have a cat?_

It's a point, at least. Steve starts to text, and then erases it and switches to actually calling; when Elizabeth picks up, Steve asks, "Are you busy this afternoon, or are you up to helping me figure out what in the world a really small kitten should have?" 

 

Steve has a sneaking suspicion that if it hadn't been about a cat, Elizabeth might have stuck to her office. He has this sneaking suspicion because he gets an unprompted text from Bruce that just reads _THANK YOU_ and also because Elizabeth asks him to meet her on their floor instead of in the labs because she needs to change, which is a sure sign she threw on something off the floor this morning, threw her lab-coat on top, and has been at work ever since. 

He texts back, _bad week?_ since Bruce probably wouldn't be that emphatic if it were just the day. 

_goddamn general escalated to showing up here day before yesterday_ , Bruce texts back. _i've never been so grateful we live in a building with security and a no-go list and that includes when Tony'd just threatened the world's most dangerous terrorist. please, take her out and talk about cats. I can't, it's too damn obvious I'm trying to make her feel better._

Steve grimaces, a little, as he steps into the Tower elevator: Thaddeus Ross is getting old, and getting old isn't being kind when it comes to his mental faculties. His attempts to get Elizabeth to go back on her word and talk to him again used to be calculated, strategic, focusing on holidays or days with significance for them or for their extended family, and they used to be . . . well. They used to have a kind of tone and approach that might have a hope in Hell of working. 

Lately, they've been less like that, and more like an old man whose mind is slipping, trying to get what he wants by shouting loud enough and long enough to get everyone else to give in and give it to him. Steve still doesn't know exactly what Ross did to get his second chance from Elizabeth so thoroughly revoked, but all things considered, including how much Steve can see it costing her to stick to it, he's perfectly willing to accept it was really that bad. Which means if the old man's started to go this far off sense, Steve kind of hopes he gets to the point he needs attendants pretty quick, so that he won't make a repeat performance in trying to show up in person. For Elizabeth and, honestly, for him. 

It's not fun to think of anyone going to pieces and humiliating themselves, like that. 

_why are you looking for cat stuff, anyway?_ Bruce asks, mostly - Steve thinks - as a way to make it so that isn't the last thing in the text screen. 

_long story,_ Steve texts back. _either elizabeth will tell you later, or I'll email you._

There's a ding from the elevator door as Bruce texts back, _gotcha_ , and Steve steps out into the little foyer that's a feature of only this floor, and Clint's. He knocks on the door. 

"Coming!" Elizabeth's voice comes from inside, and then, "Here, come in, I'm just trying to find something." 

Whether the door's not locked because she unlocked it, because it wasn't locked to start with, or because JARVIS took a cue, Steve couldn't say, but it opens and he steps inside. 

Bruce and Elizabeth have a little tiled front-porch area, in their suite, and Steve starts to take off his shoes before Elizabeth calls, "Don't worry about your shoes, just step on the little rug there on top of the carpet so you don't have to hang around in the front porch feeling awkward." 

There is in fact a sort of ribbed plain brownish rug on top of the very pale blue carpet, just where the carpet meets the tile, and Steve does step on it, which takes him out into the wide-open living-room where Elizabeth is pulling on socks by balancing a little precariously on one foot. 

"The carpet is my fault," Elizabeth informs him, switching legs. "I have an irrational attachment to light-coloured carpets, and a bad habit of not having all my stuff together when I start trying to leave; thus, the rug." She pushes her glasses back up her nose. "Apparently it's less annoying to wait for me if Bruce can _see_ me running around finding my stuff. I have no idea why, but it was easier just to get the little rug than figure it out. Of such compromises are long-term relationships made - crap, where's my purse?" 

As she darts back into one of the other rooms, Steve catches the sound of something padded landing on something soft, and then Elizabeth's cat saunters from around a corner, tail waving half-curled in the air. Steve's only seen him in photos before: ever so slightly fluffy, mostly a dull dusty black except for patches of white across his nose, his paws, his neck and underneath his tail. It's nowhere near the neat black and white pattern Steve knows is called "tuxedo"; it actually looks like someone splashed him with bleach, or maybe some white paint, making irregular and stuttering blotches of white in the black. 

The cat pads towards Steve, but then Elizabeth's emerged, purse on her arm, and is scooping him up. "Oh no you don't," she says, turning the cat around to face her. "The hallway is not for you." She kisses the cat's nose, making the cat pull his head back and put a paw on her face. Then she sort of gently tosses him back towards the other end of the suite, says, "He's always trying to sneak out," by way of explanation, and slips on her shoes. 

"So," she asks, as they step out, "why are you looking for kitten stuff?" 

 

Steve explains on the way, which turns out to be just a few blocks, though a bit longer than Elizabeth usually chooses to walk. When Steve mentions that, she makes a face. 

"I might have got a lecture from my PCP about cardio," she says. "And diet. Although even she had to admit my straight-up step-count is _fine_ \- but apparently it doesn't count if there isn't at least twenty minutes of it at a continuous pace." 

After Steve finishes explaining LeAnn Maligaya finding the kittens, the family fight about the kittens, the agreement about the kittens, Mercedes' moment of taking great offense that nobody had been up to offer Steve and Bucky a kitten, and how it sort of went from there, ending with the part where Bucky now has a kitten, Elizabeth looks momentarily thoughtful. 

"You should give me the other girl's number," she says. "I mean if the other two are actually settled at that guy's place that's fine, but if he'd rather they went somewhere else I know there's a couple of different grad students who are looking for pets. Might need to get him to foster them till they're on solids, but it's worth making sure." She tilts her head. "James decided to take one?" she asks, like she's just making sure.

The sound of mild disbelief makes Steve suppress a smile a little. "Yeah that . . .kind of implies that there was any other way it was going to happen," he says. "Actually this is just kind of what does happen when you put things that need help near Bucky. Especially small things." 

Steve's not _sure_ whether or not Bucky remembers the really, really big fight he had with his parents - both of them, which was rare - when he tried to hide that one-eyed puppy under his bed and then his dad found it and got rid of it. Or that it ended up with him running away and sleeping at Steve's for a week, until Steve's mom told him he had to go home for a little while again, and everyone just pretending that he'd been sleeping over for the reasons he usually slept at Steve's, and nobody ever talking about it again. He doesn't think it's likely, thinks Bucky would probably have brought it up some sideways, snide or ironic way if he did, and Steve's not going to bring it up unless it comes up. Not yet, anyway. 

Maybe because Bucky _does_ remember so much more from childhood, the things he just doesn't, at all, the things that are just missing, they tend to hit him worse. Add what this one's about, and Steve's just going to leave it alone until he has to touch it.

"Honestly it's kind of a shame no one's likely to see him around babies," Steve goes on, "because that's always kind of hilarious - see he tries to pretend it's really annoying, and he's really put-upon," he explains, "and it's complete and total crap. And funny. But even the kitten's kind of the same." 

"I think it's a good thing," Elizabeth informs him. "I mean, to be fair, I'm a cat person - I think everyone should have a pet. And probably a cat." 

Steve gives her a brief amused look, as he follows her veer to the other side of the street towards a particular shop. "You know Bruce still calls yours the walking dust-mop . . . ?" he asks, only because he knows she _does_. She looks aloof. 

"He's full of it," she says. "I have pictorial evidence of him sitting with Ringo in his lap, reading a book and petting him. From several _different occasions._ Plus video. And here we are." 

And Steve . . . . can't quite stop the almost incredulous, or at least really non-plussed look that he gives the place, as he actually takes it in and Elizabeth stops with her hand on the door-handle. When Elizabeth pauses and starts to laugh, he says, "I mean, I get it. I do. Mistreatment and neglect of animals is a bad thing, if you take one in you should look after it, once you love something you want it to have nice things, I just still . . . can't shake the feeling I'm in a satirical cartoon. I'm waiting for the punch-line. I kind of suspect I _am_ the punch-line." 

Because it looks like it should be kind of a cross between a snobby cafe and a snobby clothes shop, except the cookies are all dog-biscuits and the outfits are for dogs and possibly cats. Who the Hell dresses their cats? Steve is pretty damn sure cats do not appreciate outfits. 

Elizabeth pats his arm. "At least it's a change from a science-fiction novel?" she offers. 

" . . . good point," Steve says, and reaches over to hold the door open for her before he goes in. 

 

Some cynical part of him _wants_ to say the clerk saw them coming, but the kid - who's South Asian, looks like he's about nineteen and is clearly, almost gleefully, flamboyantly gay, and who also has the entire shell of his right ear pierced with one small silver ring after another - is almost terrifyingly sincere about being helpful and educational and concerned about the welfare of an animal he's never met. 

Including the moment when Steve starts to reach for a packet of treats more out of horrified fascination at the sheer faux-highbrow packaging than anything else, and the clerk - whose nametag reads "Jeremy" - exclaims, "Oh god no - sorry, but no, you _don't_ want to go for those, that _whole_ company is such a _scam_. It frankly bothers me that we even carry them, but people kept asking until my boss gave in. I don't even know. I think like some celebrity feeds their pets that crap and so everyone wants it, people are so dumb about status stuff like that." He rolls his eyes - which have eyeliner all the way around them - pretty expressively. 

"These are way better," he adds, and reaches down for a package that's several steps more pedestrian-looking, as well as five dollars cheaper, "and you can find them at most of the big chains, too, so like if they turn out to be her favourite ever you can find them lots of places, even if you move or something. And they're basically just freeze-dried meat so as long as you keep them in a dry place you can pick some up now even if she's still just on milk because she'll be on solids faster than you can imagine - in my experience with bottle-feeding it feels like _forever_ to start with and then you're suddenly like holy crap they're eating cat-food, _how_ did they get this big. Basically like babies. 

" _Right -_ speaking of which - um," he pauses, "I mean solid food, not babies, thankfully none of our foods are baby-based," and this quick grin says he thinks his joke is funny, and everyone else can please themselves, "but anyway over here - " 

Steve follows, slightly bemused. He glances over to where Elizabeth is frowning in what looks like genuine deliberation between two bottles of something Steve doesn't recognize, and then tries to pay attention to Clerk Jeremy again, over by another set of shelves. 

"Okay," Jeremy says, "so as you may or may not know, a lot of people are into feeding raw diet, which is basically just actually feeding raw meats. The thing is, if you're going to do that, it's cheaper and way less hassle in the long-term to just do your research and get cheap cuts at the grocery store, plus I _personally_ think it's a gimmicky pain in the ass, pardon my French, that doesn't have that much advantage over good commercial food. Plus plus also and, it's a _serious bitch_ , excuse my French again, to do with a kitten, because once the kitten's totally on solids, she should basically have food available all the time, and the easiest way to do _that_ is just to have a bowl of good kibble out all the time. Like, you can sort of start to mark out whatever meals you're going to have in a day with some wet food, or by mixing some of the cat-safe milk like this -" he points, " - in to make it a bit special, but basically for best growth if a kitten wants to eat there should be something to eat. Again," he says, thoughtfully, "kind of like babies!" 

The kid drops down into a crouch and pulls out a bag that looks like it weighs a couple pounds and whose logo is weirdly modern and spare for a bag of catfood, and which also says _Kitten/Cat_ on it. "So in terms of kibble, dry food, this is what I feed my cat. Not the cheapest, but in the lower end, still really good ingredients, none of the crap you sometimes suddenly hear about there being a recall because ahhhhh-oh-no-tainted-stock-from-China killing everybody's pets kidneys, and most importantly for me, again, it's something you can usually find anywhere." 

After he says that, the kid gives another expressive eye-roll and a shrug. "Like yeah okay swanky pet-stuff store and all," he makes a slightly jazz-hands gesture with both of his to encompass the rest of the shop, "but honestly cats can get so picky and attached to a certain kind of food - like, not guaranteed, but they _can_ \- that personally I think especially for someone's first pet it's kind of crappy to steer them towards something that might be hard to get in the future. Like, I work at a pet store, I'm not a drug dealer, if I wanted to do something with that business model, I'd find a more lucrative field. So. Ummm - wet food!" 

Now he stands up, hefting the bag of kibble under one arm and turning around to peer at the other side of the aisle. "So honestly in terms of everything we carry with wet food it's basically six of one half-dozen of the other," he says. "Like they're all human-grade food ingredients, no weird gluten soy ground hooves glue sawdust _whatever_ fillers, it really comes down to what your cat likes, what you don't absolutely hate the smell of, what kind of animals you feel like feeding your cat or not for _whatever_ reason - oh, if that's a thing, the kibble there is chicken, but I don't think anyone objects to chicken except total idiots who think they can make their obligate carnivore pet into a vegan. I mean, I respect whatever choices anyone wants to make about that kind of thing, but if you want a vegan pet, get a herbivore, that's all I'm saying." 

At that point he has to pause and take a breath, and goes on, "Anyway, these guys are same brand, if it were me I'd grab one of each and find out of she's picky and go from there . . .?" 

"Uh," Steve says, slightly at sea in the new and apparently really complicated world of pet-related opinions, "sure. Actually wait, no," he says, spotting the tell-tale words and pictorial representation, "nothing with fish." 

Jeremy looks surprised and Steve half-smiles, a little wryly. "I realize it goes against the cat cliche, but she doesn't get to develop a taste for fish."

"Okay!" Jeremy says, cheerfully, turning back to the shelf. "Well, it's not like that's going to leave you short or anything, I've got . . . chicken, duck, turkey, beef, rabbit aaand venison!" 

" . . . venison," Steve says, dubiously, and Jeremy gestures with the hand that holds the little tin can.

"I know right?" he says. "I just kinda assume the company has like some sort of special license to help cull the deer population in Ohio or something."

"Alright then," Steve murmurs, and then, "oh - litter. We got some from the people who were fostering, but - is there any cat-litter that doesn't smell so . . . chemical?" 

"Absolutely," Jeremy says, firmly. "Lemme just go put these down, and then you can come be totally amazed and possibly terrified by the wide range of non-clay, non-poison litter options. Also probably a box, I'm thinking. Also technically you can train your cat to use the toilet, only - don't train your cat to use the toilet," Jeremy finishes, again, pretty firmly. "It's actually kind of unnatural and can make for a serious mess if they get freaked out by the flusher or something, or get old, or get hurt, or whatever." 

Steve is willing to accept his expertise. He doesn't even want to think about how you would train a cat to use the toilet, anyway. 

There is a wide range of litter, though, and it appears to be made of every material under the sun, and eventually Steve sort of arbitrarily goes for something made out of recycled newspapers out of self-defense, and gets a litter-box that's basically a simple pan with a ramp - "Just means you don't have to worry," Jeremy says, "if she's gonna start going outside the box because it's hard to climb into," - plus a little bottle of something Jeremy swears makes catbox odour disappear like magic, because he figures why not. 

Jeremy also disappears up a third aisle and comes back with the formula. 

Which is when Elizabeth calls, "Steve, come over here and look at cat-trees." 

"What on Earth is a cat-tree?" Steve asks. Then he follows her voice around a corner and finds out, by being confronted with them. 

At first he feels like he's looking at a boring modern art exhibit covered in randomly applied swatches of carpet. Then he sort of figures out that they're like what would happen if scratching-posts and shelves had a mutant baby, and Elizabeth says, "They're for perching on and jumping on and scratching, and being up high. Cats like to be up high, it makes them feel safe. I think this one," she points, "would actually match your living-room weirdly well." 

Steve can't argue - of the lot of them, it is the one that actually looks most like a modern sculpture, in wood with little squares of sisal-rug fitted on in places, and an odd little box with a rounded roof at the top. But it also looks like an _inoffensive_ modern sculpture, a kind of boring but respectable study in curves, and the wood's just about the same colour as the coffee and side-tables. 

"The nice thing about that one," Jeremy says, coming up behind them, "is it comes in a flat-pack. I mean it's a bit heavy, because that's all real wood, not particle-board and veneer, but - " 

"I think we'll be fine," Elizabeth says, before Steve can. And then she says, "Now: toys," and when Steve looks surprised at her, she half-smiles. "The more toys you have," she says, "the less likely the kitten is to attack your ankles." 

"Ooh," Jeremy says, gesturing at her with a pointed finger. "Good selling point. And we have lots of jingly ones - you said she probably wouldn't be able to see, right?" 

 

In the end Steve gets a load of them, on the basis of _why not_ , and then he tosses on a ridiculously fluffy cat-bed, to boot. Not that - given how reluctant the kitten had been to decamp from Bucky's hand and settle in the little box bed Bucky'd made up, which from the point of view of a kitten who couldn't see had to be at least as fluffy - he actually expects her to sleep anywhere but _on_ Bucky, given the choice. Steve may not know a lot about cats, or dogs, or any kind of animal really, but he doesn't figure it takes a degree or anything to see as how any baby thing wants to be sleeping on something warm and alive, and preferably that smells like it's the thing that feeds it. That seems like a pretty basic survival instinct to have. 

And really, Steve cannot blame them. 

And frankly it'll probably be good for Bucky if he's right about that. 

But he buys the bed anyway. 

Jeremy gets all the way through ringing things up, and passing Steve a pen to sign the slip, before he pauses for a beat, sighs, and becomes a little less bright and cheerful, and a little more grounded. 

He says, "Okay look I would normally never, ever be this gauche and intrusive and annoying and bug you, because whatever, everybody has a life they don't want to be chased around in but - would you sign a thing for my boyfriend?" The kid bites his lower-lip in what looks like a nervous habit. "It's kind of his birthday next week, and if I don't ask, I'm going to spend the next six months feeling bad." 

Elizabeth bursts out laughing, and Jeremy does look mildly embarrassed, but in the way that really does come from intrusively asking something you never would. Steve half-smiles and says, "Of course." 

It's honestly not like this is new. If anything it's more awkward when the person's awkward. 

"You're awesome," Jeremy says, turning right back up into bright and sparkling, "stay right there, one second." 

Apparently the employee area is up a ladder in a little loft: Jeremy disappears up it and then comes back down a bit slower and more carefully with something inside a brown envelope. He tilts it slightly and pulls out what at first Steve thinks is a box of the old trading cards, until he picks them up and actually notices the detail and design on the box. 

Then he recognizes what they are and blurts, "Good grief where in God's name did you find a set of _those_?" 

"An estate sale I wandered into because I was bored," Jeremy replies. "Seriously. It was _so_ hard not to gloat all over Facebook and Twitter. But that would kind've ruined the surprise completely." 

Elizabeth peers around Steve's shoulder, looking curious. "What are they?" she asks.

"Recipe cards," Steve replies. He holds them up. "The USO decided they weren't getting enough money from little girls, so they printed up a set of recipe cards all made out of stuff you could theoretically grow in a Victory Garden. Very patriotic, very high-minded, all that stuff. Except not many of them got sold, because the storage building at the factory burned down, and they couldn't be bothered to print up another batch, because nobody saw them anywhere, so nobody knew they existed, so nobody was buying them, except for the few places that got the very first shipment." 

At her look of query he shakes his head, honestly a bit amused. "I kind of had everyone that mattered that much at the Front with me, but I still got mail everywhere I went. Senator Brandt thought it was really important I know what was going on with the sales." 

"I guess they probably made good fire-lighters," Elizabeth remarks, resignedly. 

"I had no idea till I looked it up," Jeremy says, "I just saw, woah, actual 1940s Captain America stuff. Then that was even cooler, because almost nobody has them. I kept them here just because there's nowhere to hide them at my place I can't be sure he won't look, and there's nowhere at my parents' place I can't be sure _they_ won't look, and take out, and thumb through, and let my little nieces see . . . " Jeremy rolls his eyes. "And at that point, work was easiest. And I mean to be honest I wouldn't've really been quite sure enough to bother you, except I know who she is," and he gestures to Elizabeth, who's smiling. "Which kind of narrowed down the possibilities. Like, number of guys who look like you, actually I've seen more than a few. Guys who look like you, sign the same name, _and_ come in here with a chief scientist from the Tower . . . " Jeremy spreads his hands and shrugs. 

"Pretty good bet" Steve says, amused. "Box or - ?" 

"Box, I think?" Jeremy says. "I mean, the box was part of the set. Which is also cool, from the memorabilia point of view." 

He passes Steve a permanent marker, and autographing things is one of those familiar motions, and then he pushes the box back to Jeremy, who very carefully sets it and the envelope on a shelf behind the counter. " _Awesome_ ," he says, looking genuinely delighted, "that's _amazing_ , thank you so much."

Then, clearly getting hit by the rote patterns of customer service Jeremy turns back to them and says, "Did you need a hand out with anyyyyy - sssooo I am just going to stop talking right now," he finishes, the aborted middle of one sentence sliding into the other, as he makes a big show of miming hitting his forehead with the palm of his hand. 

Steve grins and picks up the box for the cat-tree and tucks it under one arm, and the couple big bags for the rest of it. "I'll just say thank you from the store and also massive bold-font sparkly-text thank you," and he does a much more enthusiastic set of jazz-hands than previously, "from _me_ because you have absolutely made me officially win at boyfriend forever. Good luck with the kitten!" 

"Good luck with the birthday," Steve replies, as this time Elizabeth holds the door open. 

And since it's been bugging him since the middle of Clerk Jeremy's spiel to start with, and now they're outside, Steve says, "So now, can I just mention that I am absolutely certain the quality of actual food in the cans of catfood in this bag," and he holds up the bag, "is better than a lot of the stuff I ate as a kid? Actually probably the food in the kibble, too." 

"You know," Elizabeth says, "one of my grad-students actually did a double-major in undergrad - chemistry and history. She says you only want to look into the history of food if you never want to eat again." 

Steve considers and says, "She's probably right. I mean not all of it." He pauses. "But a lot of it. There wasn't really anybody . . . regulating anything. Especially not where we were." 

"I read a book about that," Elizabeth says. "And it was terrifying." 

 

Steve ends up letting JARVIS set him up with a ride back home, not because anything's heavy, but because the box is long and a bit awkward. 

When he gets upstairs, Bucky's on the futon watching something overwrought and Korean, and yep - the kitten is sitting on him, or sleeping on him, just in the curve of his ribcage - although her head perks up as Steve comes in the door. Despite the intense scene playing across the TV screen, Bucky seems kind of half-asleep as he moves the little thing to the futon beside him and pushes himself up to mostly sitting. 

After a second he says, "So the store clerk saw you coming," looking mostly bemused. Steve kicks off his shoes. 

"Firstly, the clerk was hilarious," he says. "Secondly, like I said to Elizabeth, this stuff?" He holds up one of the little cans of food. "I'm pretty sure the food in here is better quality than some of the stuff we used to eat." 

"Yeah, but my mom used to cut the mould and the rot off potatoes and then cook the rest of the potato," Bucky replies, "and scoop the mould off the top of jam, so that's not hard. Also apparently the mould has roots all the way through stuff once it's showing on the surface, so we were eating mould a lot. What's the box?" He sits the rest of the way up, and the kitten turns around and tries to crawl up his jeans, so he picks her up and puts her on his leg instead, where she settles down. 

Steve brings the bags over to the futon and sits down beside Bucky. "It's a cat tree," he says, putting the box on the coffee-table. Bucky stares at him, frowning. 

"What the fuck is a cat tree," he says, and it's less a question and more kind of a statement, or a complaint against new stuff in the universe to figure out. 

"That's pretty much what I said," Steve replies, "but apparently it's a kind of tall thing with ledges, like kind of a mini cat jungle-gym, that lets them scratch stuff and climb up high." 

Bucky turns his slightly disbelieving frown on the box for a second and then says, "No, fuck it, I refuse to try and understand this right now." He lies back down on the futon, head the other way and stretching his legs behind Steve, putting the cat back on his stomach where she settles down again. "What was so funny about the clerk?" 

Steve tells Bucky about it, as he opens the box and starts pulling the pieces of the cat-tree out, occasionally trying to demonstrate the gestures or the jazz-hands. "And actually," he adds, "the clear moment of struggle over whether he was going to give in and ask for the signature was kind of cute." 

"His air of worldly and blasé composure was on the line," Bucky says, amused. He's been gently petting the kitten and scratching the top of her head with a couple fingers for the last few minutes. Steve doesn't think he's noticed. 

"It's a hard decision," Steve agrees. "But you know what I ended up thinking about on the way home?" 

There aren't many times either of them asks that kind of question and gets _what?_ for an answer, and this isn't one of them. Bucky's hand rests on the back of the kitten and he says, "How fucking lucky that kid was to get born here and now? So the reason he doesn't gloat about finding the best present for his boyfriend all over what's basically the equivalent sticking notices up on the street corner is about the present, and keeping that a secret, not about the boyfriend and that secret instead?" 

"That's about it," Steve agrees, laying out the last piece of the cat-tree and tossing the box across the table in the direction of the hall. "Sometimes things do change for the better. Sometimes that's nice to think about." 

And right now, he thinks about the part where Bucky _did_ know what he'd been thinking about, and the brief, silent pause before Bucky nudges Steve's side with one foot and says, "Sap," and how much meaning is in tone of voice and patterns that go all the way through your life, and how right now, if he thinks about it, he's actually pretty God-damned happy. 

Also, if he's going to finish this, he needs a screwdriver. And as he goes into the kitchen Miscellaneous drawer to find the simple one it occurs to him to add, "And you don't need to get up, this is pretty simple to put together and your back hurts." 

"When does my back _not_ hurt?" Bucky demands, sour and griping and proving that he totally was about to work himself up into getting up and insisting on helping out of guilt. 

"That is really not an argument in favour of getting up now, Buck," Steve calls back, digging through the drawer until he finds the screwdriver. 

"You're turning into your mom," Bucky accuses, as Steve comes back and pulls the sheet of instructions over just to make sure that what looks like the obvious way this thing goes together is actually the obvious way this thing goes together. 

"That's only a nightmare if you're a woman," Steve replies, turning the paper the right way up. 

 

When the kitten complains bitterly about being put in the little box-bed for the night, Steve remembers something Jeremy-clerk said about smell and grabs the leather half-glove from the bedside table where Bucky puts it overnight and tucks it in the side of the box. It takes her a couple minutes, but she does settle down, and curls up right beside it, while Bucky gives her a slightly puzzled glare that kind of implies he thinks she's being confusing on purpose. 

"That doesn't even make sense," he protests. "It's not like that thing even lives on my skin." 

"Close enough," Steve says, sitting down on the bed. "Push your hair out of your face, try and work a knot out of the side of your neck with your wrist, all that kind of thing - " 

"Yeah, okay," Bucky admits. "I guess." And like Steve mentioning it put it in his head, he rubs at the side of his neck with his left wrist. 

Steve doesn't say anything about the part where Bucky's already accepted that she'd want to be near him, or to smell him somewhere near herself. It might not seem like much, just kind of taking that for granted, but it is, and Steve's kinda hoping Bucky just keeps not-noticing it. That he can just . . . assume it. Never gets any backlash. That'd be nice. Be encouraging, too. 

What'd also be nice is Bucky managing to _sleep_ tonight. He doesn't quite have the sunken-eyed look that makes Steve really start worrying, but he's not that far off it, either. Steve'll even settle readily for "stay asleep until the next time the kitten needs to be fed", because even that was out of reach last night. 

And like he was thinking before - _that_ , in and of itself, that seems to be soothing. 

Steve pulls his feet up off the floor and says, "C'mere and go to sleep, grouch." 

Bucky doesn't bother with a retort, instead almost kind of folds himself into bed, lying half curled up while Steve turns the light off. Which pretty much says it all. 

Steve settles behind him, pulling the covers over both of them and tucking his top arm around Bucky's waist. He can actually hear the soft, tinny whistling breath of the kitten, if he bothers to listen. He can smell Bucky's hair and his skin and thinks, slightly whimsically, that he doesn't blame the silly thing in the least for wanting that. He's not going to say that out loud, though. 

Sometimes things change for the better.


End file.
